


The Burden of a Guilty Conscience

by SoldierThirstClass (HardNoctLife)



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997), Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: After the Sector 7 Plate Falls, Canon Universe, Confessions, Drinking, Drunkenness, Feelings, Feelings Realization, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Internal Conflict, M/M, One Shot, Sloppy Makeouts, brief nudity, cockblocked
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:00:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24186271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HardNoctLife/pseuds/SoldierThirstClass
Summary: After dropping the Sector 7 plate in Midgar, Reno goes to a bar to drown his guilt, but he's getting tired of constantly running from his own feelings.When his partner Rude calls him out on his bullshit, the truth is revealed.
Relationships: Reno/Rude, Reno/Rude (Compilation of FFVII)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 105





	The Burden of a Guilty Conscience

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Burden of a Guilty Conscience](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/620050) by toherrys. 



> I was sitting on this idea for a while, and after playing Remake I had to write it. Reno has always been my favorite Turk and he has a lot of secret depth to him just waiting to be explored. That, and I love his dynamic with Rude.
> 
> I told myself I shouldn't have written this while I was supposed to be working on another big project, but sometimes you just have to go with the flow.

Inside the bar, time stands still. A lone man sits on the end of the long wooden counter with his back to the corner of the room, empty shot glasses and burned out cigarettes bathed in a golden glow from the lamps above, the only measure of his time spent there. Judging by their number, he guesses that he’s now entering the ambiguous hours of the night, the ones that could be rightfully called ‘early morning’ by some, and the ones that are a source of many of his mistakes both old and new.

The other customers share hushed conversations in the shadows around him, giving him a wide berth as he stares into his whiskey. His sleek black suit and fiery red hair are more noticeable than if he were sitting there naked, and usually he doesn’t mind it. He hears the accusatory whispers all the time—sees the glares that people give him when they think he’s not looking. But tonight, his ability to pretend not to care is wearing thinner, weakened by the alcohol pulsing through his veins. There’s an invisible target on his back, the word they hiss under their breaths like darts thrown at it. 

_Turk—Turk—Turk._

Eventually, one will hit the bullseye. 

Reno thinks he should be used to it by now. Years ago, when he first received the title, he showed it off like a badge of honor. Then he learned what being a Turk really meant: back alley assassinations, making rogue SOLDIERS disappear, and disposing of all of Shinra’s dirty laundry. Grim reapers in expensive suits. Now, the word ‘Turk’ is a slur, something to be ashamed of. To be feared.

Even so, to throw away everything he has worked for would mean death by career suicide. He decided long ago to survive by any means necessary, no matter how much it hurts. Any feelings of regret were buried and locked away, but every so often, on nights like tonight, the guilt rises back up to the surface and weighs on him. It is enough to drown a man on the best of days.

And on the worst of days? He winds up _here_ , trying to drown the guilt before it drowns him. 

It’s a topside bar, fancier than the stuff one might find under the plate, but just seedy enough to deter honest, blue-collar folks. Conveniently, it’s close to the Shinra building, but being in one of the rougher neighborhoods his odds of running into anyone he might recognize are low. And if he does, they are sure to keep their distance, much like people are doing now. He prefers it to the restaurants he might find in the business district. There’s no anonymity there, as they tend to be brimming with Shinra lackeys, and being a Turk is supposed to be synonymous with a face in the crowd. 

Nothing more than a bad dream. As far as most people are concerned, the Turks do not exist. They’re a metaphorical Boogeyman, meant to scare unruly children into obeying their parents or SOLDIER recruits to stay in line. It’s probably for the best. If a person does know that they exist, they’re probably on Shinra’s shit list. 

Voices float towards Reno from the other side of the room, louder and more grating in his intoxication (or theirs, he can’t be sure).

“Some people are saying Shinra dropped the plate.”

“What? That’s crazy! I heard it was AVALANCHE.” 

_You’re both wrong. It was us_ , Reno thinks. He fishes his last cigarette from out of the box and slips it between his lips, tongue flitting over the paper and tasting the acrid tobacco within.

“No way, you’ve got it all wrong. They’re fighting to save the planet.”

Reno scoffs as he pulls his lighter out of his pocket, noticing that his fingers tremble when he tries to get it to work.

 _Too much booze_ , he surmises. 

“Ha! Saving the planet my ass. They’re just a bunch of thugs.” 

Reno runs his thumb over the spark wheel a second time, then a third, frustration building with every failure. 

“—that _terrorist_ group—”

He sees the flame for a brief moment, but it immediately sputters and goes out. His last shred of patience dies with it.

“—those Shinra dogs don’t deserve shit—”

The two men are getting louder, and Reno feels the lighter slip from his hand, clattering on the bar. With a sharp inhale of breath, he whirls around, head spinning from the sudden movement. He grips the counter to keep from falling over as the world tilts.

“—those evil bastards—”

_—those Turks—_

“ _Hey_!” Reno shouts, his own voice reverberating in his skull. The unlit cigarette falls from his mouth and onto the floor, already forgotten. “Shut your _fucking_ mouth, I’m tryin’ to focus here!”

The silence that follows is full of animosity, the kind that suffocates you the longer it goes unacknowledged. Reno lets it fester, eyes cutting across the room smugly as if daring anyone to comment. Eventually there’s a scuffle of movement, then a cough, chair legs screeching on hardwood as the customers quietly get up and excuse themselves. 

It’s a personal victory, but it only makes him feel worse.

Reno exhales noisily. When he turns back around, conversation gradually resumes in tentative murmurs, but there is no further mention of Shinra, the Sector 7 plate, or AVALANCHE. 

_Burn ‘em all. See if I care._

He reaches for his glass, only to find that it’s empty. “Bartender. Hit me again,” he barks. The bearded man behind the bar shake his head.

“You’re cut off. Pay your tab and go home.” 

Reno sizes the guy up. He’s a big, burly cuss of a man, with forearm muscles thicker than the Turk’s neck circumference, and a scar over one eye that says ‘try me and see what happens’. But even if he isn’t as mean as he looks, Reno is six sheets to the wind and unable to light his own cigarette, let alone throw a punch. It won’t stop him from taunting him though. 

“ _Fuck_ you. You got somethin’ against redheads? Pour me a drink. I pay good gil for this piss water.”

“Nope,” the bartender drawls, collecting the empty glasses without batting an eye. He saunters off, leaving Reno to shout after him. 

“Hey! Come back here and say that to my face! I dare ya!” 

Wearing a thin-lipped smile, the man returns a few seconds later. He would have without Reno’s prompting, of course, but he humors the drunkard by placing both hands on the bar and leaning forward threateningly so that Reno is forced to choose between scooting back or making things very awkward, very fast. 

Reno scoots back begrudgingly. 

“I called your buddy. He’s on his way here. Now are you gonna pay up, or do I need to beat it out of you?” 

The Turk’s eyebrows pull slowly downward, trying to determine if the barkeep is bluffing. 

_Buddy? What buddy?_

With his eyes full of aquamarine defiance and his inhibitions destroyed, there is nothing to prevent Reno’s temper from surging past the breaking point, and his hand reflexively reaches for the weapon he keeps hidden in his inner jacket pocket. “You’ve got some nerve you oversized meathead—”

“Reno.” Equal parts resignation and exasperation, the voice can only belong to one person.

 _Oh._ That _buddy._

“Consider yourself lucky, pal,” Reno grumbles as he slides off the bar stool. It’s a farther drop than he expects though, and he stumbles as his feet hit the floor, nearly tripping over them as he fights to maintain eye contact with the man who he now considers his nemesis. The bartender smirks at Reno’s sorry attempt to intimidate him, then gives a nod to the man who joins them at the bar.

“Hey Rude.” Reno turns his back to Mr. Killjoy without looking at his bald-headed, sunglasses-wearing partner, draping his arms over the bar nonchalantly as he uses it as a crutch for his body weight. 

Ignoring Reno’s greeting entirely, Rude closes the tab, completing the transaction with a ‘thank you’ and a crisp nod.

“Aw, you should’ve at least bought me dinner first,” Reno jokes, vaguely aware of the hand that grips in the crook of his elbow. It’s suddenly very difficult to walk in a straight line, and he leans against Rude’s side, clinging to his arm out of necessity rather than familiarity. “What? You gonna take advantage of me now?” he taunts. “You’re one sick puppy, you know that, partner?” He stretches the last word long. It could be a term of endearment, or it could be an insult. It could be both.

Regardless, the entire time Reno is talking, Rude keeps his eyes forward, jaw set in determination as he leads the drunken man towards the door. They are nearly there when he hears it, barely a whisper, spoken at the moment between footsteps.

“Good riddance. Shinra trash.”

“What did you just say?” The question shoots out, tight and fast, and Reno is slipping free of Rude’s hold before he even knows what he’s doing or where he’s going. 

The first person he sees is a scrawny guy with glasses, face oily in the dim light. The punk looks cocky enough to be the one responsible for the insult, barely out of his twenties and holding fast to the teenage misconception that he’s invincible. _Been there, done that._ No doubt, he’s an AVALANCHE-wannabe asking for an ass kicking, and Reno is inclined to give it to him, but no sooner is his electro-mag rod in his hand that he feels his feet leaving the ground. 

What is up becomes down as Rude hoists him over one shoulder, and Reno kicks his feet in alarm, opening his mouth to protest. The contents of his stomach revolt as soon as he does though, and in the interest of not vomiting all over himself, he clamps his jaw shut. 

The sting of bile in Reno’s throat is soothed by fresh air when Rude kicks the door to the bar open and exits onto the street. 

“Let me go!” Reno finally manages to say. 

Abruptly, Rude does, and Reno groans as he lands on the sidewalk with a jolt, backside throbbing despite the drunken numbness that permeates through the rest of his body. When he finally manages to look up, he blinks away the tears stinging at the corners of his eyes to find Rude glaring down at him with arms folded across his chest.

“What’s wrong with you?” Rude demands.

“Nothing! What’s wrong with _you_?” Reno shoots back defensively. 

Their standoff would be comical if not for fact that Reno is painfully aware of how vulnerable he is in this moment. To make matters worse, Rude has years of experience in wading through his partner’s bullshit to get to the heart of problems, which means it will be much more difficult to evade if he starts asking questions. 

Rude lowers his voice, but Reno hears him loud and clear. “You’ve been acting weird since our last mission. Are you...having second thoughts?”

Suddenly, Reno’s heart is clawing its way out of his rib cage and into his throat, beating like a trapped bird trying to take flight. 

“Pfft. Yeah right,” he says, but his voice trails off at the end, betraying his lack of conviction. 

The silence pools, settling between them, thick with the burden of his guilty conscience. Neither of them speak for what feels like an eternity. 

“Fuck, is that the sun coming up?” Reno asks as he presses himself upright against his better judgement. In reality, it’s the moon, offensively bright and mocking his pain. The change of subject is another feeble attempt to avoid the real issue. He tries to walk so he doesn’t have to look his partner in the eye and ends up staggering a couple of steps before slumping onto a nearby park bench.

“You’re in bad shape. Why don’t you stay at my place? It’s not far from here,” Rude offers. It’s casual, but Reno can sense pity like a shark can smell blood.

“Hell no. You _definitely_ gotta buy me dinner first if we’re gonna do that.” He’s surprised to see Rude remove his glasses to frown down at him properly. Reno can’t help himself; he laughs. 

“Fine. Then I’ll owe you one. Just don’t make me carry you again.” 

“You wouldn’t dare!” He definitely would, and Reno knows it. There’s an uneasy moment where their eyes lock and neither one of them blinks, but ultimately, common sense wins out over arguing. Reno is the first to look away, sucking air against his teeth in disapproval. “Alright, alright, but no funny business, alright? I got a reputation to uphold.” 

“Right.”

He thinks he sees a flicker of a smile on Rude’s lips as the man turns away, and Reno struggles to sit up, stomach lurching in his haste to follow. “Hold up!” he moans.

Dutifully, Rude waits, offering his arm to his partner. This time, Reno takes it without a fight.

* * *

By the time they reach Rude’s apartment a couple blocks away, the sky is beginning to lighten, though the sun still has a long time before it rises. The buzz that was in Reno’s head before is now a steady pounding, and it’s becoming more difficult to keep his eyes open. 

“Just shoot me and put me out of my misery,” Reno complains as his partner fumbles for his keys. It would be easier if the man just let go of Reno and let him stand on his own two feet, but Rude keeps an arm stubbornly around him. 

_What a guy_ , Reno muses bitterly. He knows he doesn’t deserve his kindness.

“Don’t tempt me,” Rude says in the quiet way he says everything. It makes it impossible to tell whether he’s kidding or not. Reno would put money on _not_. 

Finally, the door is pushed open, and Rude guides Reno inside. Despite their years of working together, Reno has never seen the inside of his partner’s apartment, and he takes in every detail as his eyes quickly adjust to the darkness.

The entryway is small, but well kept, shoes set in a row by the door. Reno manages to kick his off as he untangles himself from Rude and presses into the wall, still unsteady on his feet.

“You good?” Rude grunts, side-eyeing him. 

“Of course I am,” Reno responds flippantly. He watches Rude collect both of their shoes and add them to the line of others before proceeding down a short hallway. 

There’s not much else to see. A kitchenette and living room, stark white and spotless, with minimal decoration are what greet them. The bare necessities, a couch and coffee table, look like they came straight out of a catalogue, with no signs of wear or use. It’s clear that Rude doesn’t spend much time there. Reno thinks he spies one framed picture of the Turks on the wall above the small television that is the focal point of the space, and quickly looks away to avoid staring at it. On the far side of a living room is a door, most likely leading to the one bedroom and sole bathroom. 

But hey, it’s way neater than Reno’s apartment. Who is he to judge? “Nice place,” he comments.

“Thanks,” Rude says politely. “Can I get you anything? Water, maybe?” 

“Ha, look at you, playing hostess.” Reno chooses not to answer the question as he makes his way to the couch a few steps away. He flops across it, surprised to find it more comfortable than it looks. Its length is perfect for his height, and he wedges a throw pillow under his head before settling into the cushions. 

As his eyes flutter closed, he can hear Rude opening the refrigerator, followed by the sound of liquid pouring into a glass. Reno squints one eye open when soft footfalls draw nearer and stop at his side. 

Rude holds out a glass of water to him, expecting him to take it. “You’ll thank me later,” he promises. 

“We’ll see,” Reno teases, propping himself up on his elbows before accepting the offering. He downs it in a few quick gulps and waits for it to settle in his stomach before handing the glass back to its rightful owner. 

Rude sets to glass on the low table in the center of the room. “You need me to wake you at a certain time?” he wonders. 

Momentarily distracted by Rude removing his sunglasses and pocketing them, Reno doesn't immediately answer. It isn’t until Rude turns to him that he remembers the question.

“Nah. Just wake me up if the boss calls.” 

“Will do.” 

But Rude doesn’t turn away, and Reno recognizes the look in his eyes, no longer hidden by the tinted frames. Worry. Worry for _him_ , specifically.

Reno swallows hard, digging through his exhaustion to find the will to fight, but he’s been fighting for years now, and dammit, he’s starting to get tired. If Rude asks in so many words, he may just break down and tell him the truth. 

_I’m done with this shit, man_.

But instead, Rude gives a decisive nod and steps away, heading for the door on the opposite side of the room. 

“Sleep well,” he says before stepping behind it. 

Reno shuts his eyes in time with the door, releasing a ragged breath that he didn’t realize he was holding. 

_That was a close one_ , he thinks. So why does he feel more disappointed than relieved? 

* * *

The smell of coffee finds its way to him, and Reno briefly thinks he must be dreaming. It isn’t until he feels a gentle nudge in his side that he realizes that he’s not, eyelids fluttering to find Rude towering over him. This time it’s a mug he is holding instead of a glass, although his stance is the exact same from the night before.

The warm liquid is a welcome alarm clock, even with his tempestuous stomach threatening to capsize at any moment, and he yawns as he takes the gift in both hands, sipping at it gingerly. It’s then that Reno notes the blanket draped over him, a blanket that he is sure wasn’t there when he fell asleep.

_Huh. Did Rude…?_

“Sleep well?” Rude asks, interrupting his thoughts.

Much like the bar, Reno has no way of knowing the time as the room has no windows, but judging by the way his body aches with every small movement, it must be afternoon. That, and Rude is fully dressed with his sunglasses on, clearly intent on going somewhere. 

“Well enough,” Reno finally decides. He takes a larger swallow of the coffee, feeling the heat worm its way down the back of his throat and into his stomach. The acid hits him like a punch to the gut, and he has to pause to keep the coffee from coming back up along with whatever else he consumed last night.

“Hungry? I made breakfast. Or, lunch. Take your pick.” 

“Starving,” Reno readily agrees. His partner is already leading the way into the kitchen, and he sets his coffee mug down before getting to his feet, stretching arms languidly overhead before following.

It’s strange how _normal_ this feels, waking up in Rude’s apartment and having breakfast he cooked, even after living alone for years, but then again, Rude has been Reno’s partner for longer than he can remember. So when the man slides a plate of food over, Reno digs in without ceremony, devouring everything on it with animalistic fervor as he bends over the kitchen counter, not bothering to take the plate to the table. The eggs are cold now, but the bacon is perfectly crispy, and he swears to Shiva it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. Hungover beggars can’t be choosers. 

His stomach grumbles happily when he finishes, and he rubs one hand over his belly before letting loose a satisfied burp. The space has barely enough standing room for two people, and Rude’s back is to the sink as he watches Reno, the ghost of a smile on his lips. 

“What?” Reno demands, noticing how his partner is studying him. 

Rude shrugs. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen this side of you before.”

“Well, get a good look, because you probably won’t see it again.” He snorts, reaching around Rude to place his plate in the sink. Their shoulders brush, and Reno frowns at how the contact makes his heart flutter unexpectedly.

“Does that mean you won’t be getting drunk again anytime soon?” 

“No promises,” Reno retorts off-handedly, returning to the living room to retrieve his coffee. It would be a shame to waste it, even if he really should be going. He’s definitely overstayed his welcome, and he doesn’t like being in anyone’s debt—even if it is a friend’s. 

_A friend_. _Huh, I guess he is._

Reno sips his drink moodily before noticing that Rude is still staring, now perched on the edge of the couch an arms-length away. 

“You got something to say, partner?” Reno questions, irritation showing. He’s starting to feel trapped, though the notion itself is ridiculous. He’s free to leave at any time. 

“What really happened last night?” 

Reno’s fingers squeeze around the porcelain mug’s handle, and he sneers to disguise his panic. “What, are you blind? I drank my weight in whiskey, _that’s_ what happened.” He feels Rude’s gaze on him, and blood rushes to his face. “Tch. I’m leaving.” Slamming the mug down on the living room table, coffee plashes over the rim and onto the white carpet.

 _Fuck_. He growls in annoyance. 

“Alright,” Rude sighs before spreading his hands in front of him helplessly. “Keep dancing around it. It’s what you do best.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He’s staring at the brown stain that is slowly spreading between their feet, muscles tensed in preparation for a fight.

Rude raises a hand, and Reno braces himself and closes his eyes, fully expecting a slap to the face, but it never comes. Instead, the man grips his partner’s shoulder and squeezes. Slowly, Reno reopens his eyes. With his free hand, Rude takes off his sunglasses, expression serious as the grave.

“You’re not the only one with regrets, you know.” 

“W-what?” Reno sputters, mentally backpedaling. The confession is the last thing he expected, and he is desperately trying to plug the hole in the emotional dam he has carefully constructed, but Reno’s eyes are taking a sledgehammer to it. When he feels his chest tighten, he knows that he’s a goner.

“Just because it’s a part of the job doesn’t mean we have to like it,” Rude continues, all practicality and acceptance.

Reno hates how every word stings. The slap to the face would have been easier to bear. 

“Fuck, man.” The words come out strangled and they sound foreign in his own ears. Reno shoves Rude’s hand away, only to have it come right back, holding him more tightly. 

“Reno. I’m your partner. If there’s anyone who understands, it’s me.” 

The dam is crumbling, and its contents are surging forward, intent on destroying everything in its path. Reno knows this because his vision is now blurred, fear and weakness taking on a physical form. 

_Time to sink or swim_. 

“I’m tired of always being the bad guys,” Reno blurts, surprised by his own honesty. Rude looks less so, but nods understandingly. “When we started, we were both stupid kids, ready to change the world, but now look at us! Fucking _puppets_ , pawns on Shinra's chess board. You think they’re gonna care if we die tomorrow? _Hell_ no! We dropped a whole fucking plate. _Innocent_ people died. A lot of them. And I’m supposed to be okay with that, and report to work, and say ‘yes sir’ and ‘no sir’ and kiss ass to the top brass like everything’s normal?” He’s shouting now, unable to help himself. “I’ve about fucking had it!” 

In the time it takes to catch his breath, Reno is overcome by exhaustion, as if expressing his true feelings has successfully drained him of any energy he regained from sleeping and eating. His cheeks are damp, and he reaches up to touch them with one hand, wiping the tears away in embarrassment.

“Fuck this,” he says as he rakes a palm over his face. Rude grabs it with unusual gentleness and holds it. 

Their gazes intersect like stars crossing in the night, a perfect storm of emotions and circumstance putting them in the right place at the right time. Suddenly, Reno’s fingers are trembling like they were in the bar when trying to light his cigarette, except it’s not due to anger, but the knowledge of what is about to happen. His mind is screaming at him to run, but the voice is far away and soon fades as their bodies move automatically.

Reno has never kissed a guy before. To be honest, he never really gave it much thought, but when his lips meet Rude’s he is shocked by how soft and warm they are, just as good as any woman’s. The scratching of facial hair on Reno’s skin is not as abrasive as he imagined it would be. In fact, it’s sort of a pleasant tickle, and he tentatively extends the kiss with one of his own, and then another, and another. He has the fleeting thought that he must taste like nicotine and alcohol, but if he does, his partner doesn’t seem to mind.

Pretty soon, Rude is backing Reno onto the couch, strong arms holding him above the man so not to crush him beneath his larger frame. Reno likes the weight of him though, and he grips Rude by the waist and jams their hips together, the friction making them both moan in appreciation. 

“Reno, I—” 

“I swear to god if you say this is a mistake or fucking apologize I’m gonna gouge your eyes out,” Reno hisses, a hand digging into the back of Rude’s neck for better leverage. 

Chuckling, Rude kisses Reno then, an apology in its own way, but one that they’re both willing to let slide. 

This—them together—feels right in a way things haven’t in months. All the emptiness and hatred and loneliness Reno has come to know melts away with every hungry touch, each clumsy smacking of lips. Reno feels _alive_ , and Rude is like a drug that he can see himself becoming addicted to. 

At some point, through the haze of heavy breathing and endorphins, Reno feels Rude’s hand slip inside his jacket and along his bare chest before dipping lower, fingers hooking under his waistband. His breath hitches, alarm momentarily breaking him out of his aroused stupor and Rude pauses, silently asking for permission to proceed. 

“I thought you were going to buy me dinner first,” Reno laughs nervously. He feels like a teenager with the first-time butterflies, and part of him wishes he was still drunk.

“Does making breakfast count?” Rude withdraws his hand though, interpreting Reno’s hesitation as a ‘no’.

“Yeah. Yeah, it counts,” Reno declares, wetting his lips. They blink at each other as if finally realizing what they’re doing. Reno’s knees are cradling Rude’s hips, ankles hooked behind his partner’s thighs, and their proximity draws intimate attention to the bulges in their pants, confirmation of their mutual attraction. 

_What the hell am I thinking?_

Reno wriggles out from under Rude, and the man sits back on his heels, letting him have his space. 

“I, uh, don’t know what came over me,” Reno admits, running a hand through his disheveled hair. 

Although Rude doesn’t comment, the silence speaks for him. He doesn’t show any remorse, but if Reno wants to act like it never happened, that’s what they’ll do. 

_Business as usual._ The knowledge leaves a sour taste in Reno’s mouth, that even this could be used against him. Against _them_. He’s a fool if he thinks that the Turks would permit two of their top operatives to have an amorous relationship. He can already hear Tseng now: “Too risky. End it now, or I will.” Reno shudders at the thought.

“What’s going through that red head of yours?” his partner prods. 

Reno moves to sit cross-legged, hands coming to rest on his knees. “We can’t do...whatever this is. You know that, right? No way the boss will allow it.”

Humming, Rude leans into the opposite corner of the couch, allowing his legs to rub up against Reno’s as his eyes lift to the ceiling. 

“Yeah, you’re probably right. Which is why we don’t need to tell the boss.” 

“Huh?” Reno scoffs. “You think he won’t find out? That’s awfully optimistic, pal.” But he’s definitely more attentive now, curious to hear what his partner has up his sleeve.

“Maybe, maybe not. We’re pretty good at staying under the radar when it counts. Who’s to say we can’t treat this the same way?”

“Approach it like a job?” It’s so ridiculous that Reno thinks it just might work. Hope is a dangerous thing, but it’s also a powerful motivator, and he knows they’re both at the point where they’re willing to take a couple risks if it means preserving their sanity. 

_Hell_ , _why not? What’s the worst that could happen?_

“I feel like I might regret this later, but…” Reno grins deviously. “Sure, partner. I’m game if you are.” 

When Rude smiles, Reno’s stomach flip-flops, filled with a queasiness unrelated to his hangover. They’re agreeing to enter uncharted territory, and it’s more terrifying than anything he has experienced in recent memory. Luckily, he won’t be going alone.

He’s still thinking about what he just agreed to when Rude crawls across the cushions towards him, head dipping to hover over Reno’s abdomen as he lifts the man’s shirt, Reno’s jacket unbuttoning as he does so. 

“Hey, easy with the merchandise.” Reno’s teasing falls off when Rude unclasps his belt, leather hissing as it is pulled through the belt loops and tossed aside. Red hair splays over the arm of the couch when Reno throws his head back, biting down on an erotic moan when his pants are unzipped and erection finally freed. 

Legs falling open to allow Rude more room, Reno takes a deep breath in preparation for what’s to come, only to have his fantasizing abruptly interrupted by the ringing of a cell phone. 

Reno groans loudly when Rude abandons his partner’s exposed cock in favor of reaching into his coat pocket. “ _Seriously_?” 

Rude gulps as he glances at the screen, eyes widening slightly. “It’s the boss.”

“ _Fuck_ me, of course it is.” Not waiting to be given instruction, he rolls into a seated position and begins buttoning his jacket while Rude answers.

He’s Mr. Cool-and-Collected as he says, “Hello sir.” There’s a long pause. It’s hard to hide his disappointment as Reno zips his pants and retrieves his belt, and he casts a look over his shoulder at Rude that is meant to ask, ‘what gives?’ “Yes sir, I’ll be there right away.” A briefer pause. “Reno?” Rude lifts his eyebrows as Reno flips his partner off playfully. “No sir, I haven’t seen him, but I’ll make sure he gets the message.” 

“Duty calls?” Reno inquiries as soon as he hangs up.

“Yup.” 

_Well, work just got a whole lot more interesting_.

“Well then, let’s not keep the boss waiting.” As Reno slips past Rude and towards the front door, he gropes his partner’s ass, delighted to feel the man jump. He himself has some extra pep in his step, a weight lifted from his shoulders. 

_Or maybe not lifted—no_ , Reno thinks as he glances back at Rude _—maybe it’s shared._

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by fanart by toherrys: https://toherrys.tumblr.com/post/618042509999980544/the-burden-of-a-guilty-conscience
> 
> Feel free to yell at my on twitter (@HardNoctLife) or Tumblr (hard-noct-life)


End file.
